Pathetic
by Aranel Naur
Summary: Three men in an old house. Night, rain and music. How will they while away the cold windy autumnal night in the company of each other


**Pathetic**

**Summary:** three men in an old house. Night, rain and music. How will they while away the cold windy autumnal night in the company of each other

**A/n:** partly the story was born owing to my new ultimate obsession called 'Gilgamesh', the anime seeming so inspirational that I have already invented tons of plots in my head; partly it was due to the cold and windy weather we've got there in Russia; partly it was born grace à that wonderful fic I read a couple of weeks ago and which still keeps me in a weird kind of mood; partly Beethoven's music influenced me and helped to write it

I had no idea how to entitle this so I called it basing on Beethoven's composition 'Pathetic'

The story is AU-ish since it has little in common with the anime series, like, for instance, there's no Sheltering Sky, I described our world in its normal condition) What is taken from the story is the three main characters (Sex, Octo and Novem), all the rest is a twist of my vivid imagination)

Anyway I hope you'll like this piece of writing, a sketch as I call it, and if so, do not forget to read and review

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The three of them are sitting in a dimly-lit parlor of an old half-ruined mansion. Orange flames of a huge hearth reflecting on the gray walls, creating unique intricate patterns, dancing on the floorboards somewhat languidly, lazily or it might be their imagination for in the gloom of the place many objects seemed different, losing their true shapes, getting new outlines. Here all breathed with oldness, loneliness and… sadness.

On the table, at which they are having their lately repast, a bottle of exquisite red wine, obviously found within the cobwebbed depths of the cellar, and three glasses. A c-moll Beethoven's 'Pathetic' tunes float in the cool air, its light sounds seem to be born by a weird alien device, while tears of September rain behind the curtained windows pour down along the glass, thin and fragile, almost like everything in this house: its calm sorrow and frozen beauty.

And for each of the three of them it carries its own special meaning, touching the very bottom of the three souls, awakening, stirring, moving.

They will have to stay here for the night, for a long wet autumnal night, cold, as the winds tend to blow stronger, and moonless, as the sky is stormclouded, every now and then sending merciless rain that seems to never stop. Not a star is seen on a night like this and it makes all even darker, shadier, scarier to the point when even the bravest don't dare to step outside, into the world of ruthlessness, cruelty, and be left alone surrounded by just the elements.

The three young men will have to get warm before the somber evening is over, before they go upstairs to look for a suitable room to while away the time until next morning comes, another dull morning of shivering under the not-so-dry covers and not-very-clean sheets as their beds are low and creaking although it looks like human moaning. But they have got used to the lack of creature comforts and earthly delights being familiar with hardships and simplicity since childhood. So far they are here, in the spacious hall sinking in warmth of the burning fire, trying to fill their bodies, like containers, with its precious temperature only to keep it for some short hours before it is wasted, before the grand clock strikes twelve.

They have only one-twenty minutes left. In silence, dropping no word or gesture, in sereneness and perfect immobility they are waiting, they are still, motionless like mannequin's and, should anyone cross the room, he would never guess there were alive people in front of him. People… if only they, being unhuman, could be called as such.

A tree bough hits against the window as though asking for shelter, a refuge to hide from the storm, as if a stick were a frightened bird clapping its wings eager to break through the glass, a pitiful sight indeed. One of them rises from his seat to come up and contemplate, however in the pitch-black his eyes discern nothing except the silver of rain streamlets on the transparent surface. The music piece grows dissonant with what is happening there, on the other side, behind the threshold, the cracking of wood in the fireplace, measured, right sets contrast with distant thunderclaps, abrupt, sudden. He chooses the peace inside and turns to face the others.

The same bottle of wine and untouched food, scarce as it is, on the table and his near-empty glass, while the other two are missing. As well as the two persons. For a moment he remains here pondering over where they could have gone. Bright playful twisting flames, as he continuously watches them, give a definite answer, and the man leaves the room for another one up the stairs, in slow thoughtful gait he walks with the glass of red liquid, holding it a bit too tightly perhaps as if afraid to spill the treasured contents. He is almost sure he knows where they are. The music is still vaguely heard from the hall creating a charming environment, it sounds quiet yet unmated to the sensitive ear of his, it's so pleasurable he might as well stay and enjoy it yet he keeps his feet toward what he thinks the only possible place for his colleagues to be. The farther he goes the darker the house becomes, the old mansion turning into a gigantic pit which he is rambling inside.

It could be an apparition, an illusion but he catches some small voices, then the place is deaf again. Simultaneously time seems to have died and his always-alert eyes have got blind for there is not a thing visible, only a gut feeling leads him somewhere deeper into the abyss. There is no fear. He is not afraid of death. Like the thread of Ariadne something causes him to walk, a beacon is lit for him like for a one who's off the beam, as if he were a ship in the roaring sea.

In the remotest, and that makes it thus sacred, corner of the building he finds himself a witness of a wonderful scene. Paradise is where he is now, he and the two other half-gods are there in the same bedroom and what he has to do is step ahead and join them in making love. They have been waiting for him, the mere idea of it makes him drunk. The storm, the music, the fire, the bouquet of wine, all mixing in his head fitting brilliantly; loud, grotesque, bright, delicious, he feels it like never before, all things together, inseparable, giving birth to magical magnificence and ethereal beauty and while musing upon this he seems to be melting, turning into mist, a translucent-blue mist of the morning. Can it be white wings or is he just floating with his feet off the ground as he gently crosses the threshold?..

Next morning meets them with the monotonous symphony of drip-dropping against the sill and light whirls of withered foliage behind the barely closed shutters, brown curtains swaying by the wayward wind wake them up with their yet-audible rustle when the ever-pricked ears notice it taking it as a sign for getting up. The bed is unfriendly so are the other things there, all looking strange like clear imprint of death. Only a few kisses shared among the three somehow help to cheer them up, and several sips of remaining wine, so rough and well-seasoned, have them fully awakened. No shining smile adorns the faces as they hurry to leave the temporary abode.

The skies, turning blacker, as if getting ready to pour heavy rain again, warns the men to search for another sanctuary – they have been staying here for too long. Nothing detains them there, no necessity to linger. They have to go, the road is waiting. One more hard day of hermit-roaming turning into a night of being solitary hostages in an abandoned dwelling. It's their own way, chosen by them only and forever will they be destined to live this burden-like life of wandering homeless.


End file.
